Swan Song
by AfterTheRose
Summary: When all we know is darkness, how can we find the light? The story of the 72nd Hunger Games. Rated T because, let's face it, it's the Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

**_ "For what is it to die, But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind? And when the Earth has claimed our limbs, Then we shall truly dance."  
― Khalil Gibran_**

* * *

_"RUN! IVY, RUN!" he screams and the sound fills me with terror. I try to run, but they've spotted me already and my legs can't move fast enough. I swerve through the pressing crowd and try to make it to a dark alleyway. A white clad peacekeeper easily sweeps me into his huge arms and I scream for help. He forces me to look at the stage. Daddy collapses on the ground, with a bullet in his brain._

I awake, shivering and covered in cold sweat, gasping from my nightmare as my eyes replay the images of my father's final moments again and again and again. I see his fearful eyes, his hard pressed lips, all in perfect recall, etched against my closed eyelids. Wiping the moisture from my brow, I feel the movement of a small body beside me. Of course. Shell. I turn towards her, watching her little face peaceful in sleep. She must have snuck through to my dorm. For a six year old, she's pretty sneaky. Normally I might complain about her stealing my space but, on a day like today, I just let her be. She turns over onto her back and I tuck the sheet around her as I slip silently out of the bed. The air is chilled and crisp, the breeze is leaking through the cracks in the window, and I shiver as I pull on my jacket. Around her neck is her namesake, a tiny coral shell tied onto a necklace made of tightly-woven brown string. She was found abandoned three years ago with nothing but that necklace. I watch at her, unable to see how anyone could bare to leave her, but I already know the reason why. She was just one too many mouths to feed. Here in District Eight, food shortages are the only thing we know, the kids in my community home have never had a full stomach. I look around the room, taking in the steadily breathing forms of the seven girls I share with. Once content of their slumber, I drop to my knees and prize up the loose floorboard under my bed. Swiftly, I reach into the gap and pull out my only precious possession – ballet slippers. I stitched them myself from scraps I silk I stole from the factory. I slip them into the pocket of my battered jacket. Walking carefully to avoid creaking floorboards, I glide across the room in a practised motion and open the door, holding my breath as it squeeks.

The hall is dark and dank, with the faint smell of rotting wood, and I walk quickly down it, towards the window at the far end, slowing to a crawl as I pass doors. With a quick check of a cracked clock on the wall, I see that it is 5am. In District Eight, the first shift in the factories starts at 6am, with school beginning at 8:30am for 4-18 year olds. Everyone here pulls a four hour shift at some point of the day, producing clothes and textiles to be sent to the Capitol. I dropped out of school last year, on my long awaited sixteenth birthday, so I could work full time in the factories. It was a shock to the system when I wasn't able to feed Shell on my one shift a day routine, so I had to give up my education. I make elaborate dresses for Capitol ladies, with beautiful lengths of silk and velvet, when I think of the easy life those in the Capitol have compared to us in the districts, it makes me sick. But today is Reaping Day, so few people need to awaken until at least 8am. The reaping isn't till 2pm, so you might as well sleep will you can. Unfortunately for me, I'm on the list to work a shift this morning. Yippee. From the pocket of my jacket, I slip out a small knife and carefully slide it under the latch and swipe it to the right. Then I carefully open the window and climb out, balancing with ease on the tiny ledge. I begin to climb up the short distance to the flat roof of the building, the large cracks of neglect making for an easy climb. I reach the top in a few seconds and haul myself over the railing. With a deep breath, I look out across the ugly grey rooftops of the district. The district is made of hundreds of tightly squashed tenements, with the occasional factory breaking their uniform ranks. The air is thick with industrial fumes, but this morning a swift breeze is bringing fresh air from the east. I breathe in the clean air with a smile on my face then I sit down on the ledge and pull on my ballet shoes. I stand up straight, lift my head up high and begin to dance. I pirouette, brisé and fouetté en tournant until my legs shake and my breathing is laboured. It's all I've ever wanted to do – dance. I love it more than life itself, to feel the beat, the essence of music and move your body to it. For me, that is more important than even oxygen. With an outstretched arm, with a spin, you can show the world an emotion they did not know existed.

When I hear the first sounds of movement in the home below me, I climb back down to the window, hitch it up and slip soundlessly back to my dorm room. I've just climbed into my bed, nestling Shell against my too-thin form, when the door bursts open, shaking the room.

"Rise an' sine, lil' ones! Time tay die!" Pallon is drunk. Again. The warden stumbles into the room, barely staying flat on his feet, with anger on his face. Oh no. I know that expression too well, from the eleven years I've been in the community home. I find my fingers fleeting over scars on my body. He flounders further, glaring at each girl in turn, until he rounds on me.

"Morning gorgeous." He breathes and I feel helpless fear rise within me. I push myself in front of Shell, who whimpers quietly. Pallon's face widens into a terrible grin.

"What do you want, Pallon?" I ask with an unsteady voice. He rips the sheets off my bed and laughs.

"OUT!" He bellows and I can smell the liquor on his breath from my bed. Girls scurry from the room, dressed in nightgowns, without even a second glance. Shell sits still, uncertainty on her face. I motion to the door with my head and watch her flee from the room.

"What do you want, Pallon?" He mimics my tone, a cruel look in his eyes. I try to swallow the large lump that has appeared in my throat. He stalks towards me and runs a finger down my cheek. I shiver. "I want you." He smirks, placing a heavy hand on my bare shoulder. My spine stiffens and I stare towards to open door, wondering if I could make it there faster than he could grab me. But the weight of his hand confirms that no, I cannot.

"No." I whisper quietly. Anger flashes in his eyes.

"You know… It would be a real shame if anything was to happen to that adorable little Negro that follows you about…" he says, stressing each word. "If you knew what was good for you… you'd do what I want." His hand snakes around the back of my neck and he laces his fingers tightly into my hair. He yanks my head back, exposing the pale skin of my neck. He runs his nose along the crease of my neck. I whimper.

"Yes… It would be a real shame." He murmurs, "So let's try it again … I want you. What do you say?" I shut my eyes. I'm scared. I know that Pallon is going to hurt me no matter what I say next. Keep it together, Ivy. The last thing you want to do is provoke him. His grip on my head tightens. I open my eyes and glare straight into his cruel, hard face. Before my brain has time to stop it, the word simply tumbles out of my open mouth.

"No."

The next thing I know, I'm being thrown from the bed. I tumble forward and land hard on my back, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I lie there for a second, stunned. Just when I realise that this is my chance to escape this awful, drunk man, he pushes me flat on the ground, sits across my hips and pins my arms to the floor. I turn my face away from his stench.

"Now, now, now… That's no way to behave for a young lady." He whispers, menacingly. I feel my back ache from the contact of the cold, hard floor. "You'd better make up for that and give me a kiss." He pulls my face up towards his. I'm filled with disgust. So I spit in his face. A blow connects with my cheekbone and instantly I feel tears spring at the back of my eyes. My head is reeling as I brace myself for the next blow. Pallon knees my stomach and I unwittingly cry out. He laughs. Next he thrusts my head back, hard, onto the wood. My brain rattles in my skull. I find his hands attempting to pull up my shirt and I'm thrashing beneath him, screaming.

"HEY! GET AWAY FROM HER!" someone shouts. Pallon is ripped away from on top of me; I scramble across the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. My saviour throws Pallon from the room with brutal force before hurrying and kneeling in front of me.

"Ivy, darling, it's okay, I'm here." Soothes my best friend Jeremy, brushing the hair away from my face. Before I can stop myself, I start to cry. Jeremy looks at me with concern, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "What happened?" He asks.

"H-h-he wanted to… H-he wanted me to…" I couldn't say it. "He threatened Shell!" I sob finally. Jeremy pulls me into his lap and rocks me softly.

"Shh it's okay. You're alright now, I'm here for you." He tells me, simply. We both know that Pallon is going to make him pay for helping me. I cling to his shirt with my fingertips, trying to keep him safe. We sit in silence for a while, as the sobs begin to subside and I regain my composure. Jeremy runs his fingers lightly over where Pallon hit me and I wince.

"Hurts?" He asks, cautiously. I nod, pulling myself out of his lap and standing up.

"I'll put some ice on it." I say, straightening my clothes. I gingerly press down on my cheekbone, aware of the bruise that is already forming. I busy myself with making my bed, attempting to pretend that Pallon had not even entered the room.

"Ivy…" says Jeremy quietly.

"Jeremy, can you just leave me alone?" I snap. I don't look at him but I know that my words' sharpness hurt him.

"Don't be like that." He says reproachfully. I can hear the hurt in his voice and I immediately regret my words.

"I'm sorry." I say, sitting down on the bed with my head in my hands. "It's stupid to get mad at you. Thank you for helping me." Jeremy puts two fingers under my chin and lifts my head so he can look into my eyes.

"I will always be there to save you." He says.

We met when I was six years old; he was seven at the time. I had just been dragged into the community home, kicking and screaming after seeing my father die. The community warden at the time, a dreadful woman named Lucia, beat me till I stopped screaming. She broke six of my fingers and four of my ribs; I was covered in bruises for weeks. I remember sitting in a dark room, crying, when I felt someone put their arm around me.

"I'm sorry they hurt you." Jeremy had said, "I promise I'll save you next time."

After that, we stuck together. Jeremy always tried his best to keep his promise. Of course, it was not always possible to save me. He's been too late before.

* * *

The factory looms over me in all its bleak abundance, the windows like cold, dead eyes. I draw my coat tighter around my shoulders and drop my head low, to blend in with the hopeless slump most community home children have, it will not do to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. With a curt nod at the peacekeepers guarding the entrance, I enter through the mesh steel doors and grab my check in card from the wall. The balding man on the reception eyes me with an angry look but something is stopping him from mentioning my lateness, perhaps the angry red marks on my face, and so he just bites his tongue. I check myself in and hurry towards my station. The factory is lit with harsh artificial light, which eventually damages the eyes of all the workers, the lanterns hang from the high ceiling and give the whole place a dank, cold atmosphere and the constant whirring of sewing machines and dusty coughs of workers fill the room with noise. I slide onto my stool, rubbing my hands to keep them warm. I hope dearly that my lateness hasn't been noted. I'm only ten minutes late but they'll dock my precious pay for it if I don't buckle down and make up for lost time. Since its Reaping day, I'm praying that Elizabeth, the floor manager, is in a good mood.

"Good morning Miss Allende." Comes Elizabeth's smooth drawl. Well that's just great. Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, as they say. I paste a smile on my face and try to appear as cheerful as possible.

"Good morning ma'am! How're you?" I beam. Her face remains emotionless but I can feel her eyes trained on the swelling of my cheek. She doesn't look taken aback, however, because these injuries are not uncommon with me. Un-expectantly, a smile breaks out across her thin lips.

"I'm very well, thank you! And thank you for agreeing to work on this holiday, I'm aware that you are up for the Reaping today, so I wish you the best of luck!" She tells me sincerely.

With that, she's leaves me to my work. It seems that luck is on my side at this hour, she didn't even mention my lateness! I take up my needle and thread and begin to stitch delicate pearls onto a pale pink ball gown. They look like soft clouds upon an early morning sky and the soft satin wafts the faint smell of roses to me. Absentmindedly, I wish I could try it on, just to feel the luxury against my body. My eyelids feel heavy from the lack of sleep caused by my nightmares and the harsh light seers painfully. My mind is drifting to my plans for after the Reaping – Jeremy and I plan to take Shell for a trip to the bakery, as we've saved up enough money to buy a cake! We're celebrating Jeremy's last Reaping. Cakes are expensive things and I've only had a bakery cake once before, when Jeremy produced one for my sixteenth birthday. I can almost taste the sweetness on my tongue and I savour the feeling. The cakes and bread from the bakers put the measly rolls I make from my tessera grain to shame. You're given the option to sign up for a tessera every year on your birthday; they give you grain and oil in exchange for your name going into the Reaping Ball extra times. You are supposed to be able to receive a tessera for each family member, but the rules get a bit mixed for orphans. We can take them out up to four times, and I'm signed up for four. This means that my name is in there 30 times, Jeremy has 35 little slips of paper with his name written on them. The odds are still impossible, however. The chances of either of us being chosen are so slim, they are almost non-existent. I'm so wrapped up in the trappings of my mind that I don't sense someone standing close behind me.

"Gottcha!" cries Dee triumphantly as she swots me around the head. When she sees the surprised expression on my face, she erupts into peeling laughter. When Dee is concerned, it is impossible not to catch her unending optimism and I hear laughter ring from me. She smiles, flicks her short, chestnut hair away from her face and plonks herself on my workbench.

"Happy Hunger Games…" She begins, sporting the awful affected accent of the Capitol.

"And may the odds be ever in your favour!" I finish with an accent equally irritating. She bears a wide grin on her face but I know it's masking the despair. We have to joke because, like everyone else in the Districts, the awful reality of the Hunger Games is far too much for us to bear without it. Her eyes echo the same fear I feel, even though she is no longer eligible for the Games. Dee has five younger siblings and three of them will be in the Reaping Ball today, worrying about another is even worse than worrying about yourself. I do not envy her position. The smile fades from my lips and I take up my needle again, finishing the last stitches on the dress.

"So how are you holding up today?" she asks, the enthusiasm fading from her. I don't answer, choosing instead to fix her with a stare. She shudders. "That bad, huh?"

"I'm fine, just had a tough morning." I attempt to blow her off.

"Ivy, it's half seven in the morning, you haven't even had time to have a bad morning." I want to talk to her about it, to share what happened, but my skin is still crawling and I can still feel his hands on me. I want to start crying, but I'm at work. I can't cry at work. Dee peers at me closely, and then a look of disgust fills the corners of her face.

"What happened to you?" she chokes out. I can't look at her, I can't reply. I sit in miserable silence. "Pallon?" I nod. I can feel her bristling next to me.

"You have to get out of there, you cannot stay there!" she bursts, as if I don't already know that. I would leave if I could, but there is nowhere to go.

"Do you know why he gets drunk every Reaping? His brother was reaped twenty years ago." I say. I try to imagine how I would feel if someone I love went into the Games, maybe I would get drunk too. Dee pulls my face around to hers.

"You can't justify what he does to you just because he lost someone. Everyone has lost someone precious; the entire district has a sob story!"

"I just want to get through my shift and go home. Nothing else." I say, quietly. Dee throws her hands up in defeat. I lock off the stitches I was working on and dig around in my drawer for some red thread. I find what I'm looking for and thread it into my needle. On the hem of the ruffled dress, I do two cross stitches and then tie it off and cut the thread.

"Why do you always do that?" Dee asks me.

"Do what?"

"The red thread. Everything I've ever seen you make, you stitch a tiny bit of red thread on the hem." I smile weakly.

"I don't know really. I guess I just want to be recognized for my work. If I ever see one of my outfits on some fancy Capitol official, I can take pride in it being mine." Dee gives me a strange look. She doesn't understand that if all I ever do is make clothes, I need to hold pride in it. Not for anybody else but myself.

"Guess what I have?" Dee lights up. From the pocket of her slacks, she pulls out two shiny, red apples. My mouth drops open.

"You got fresh apples?!" I take one from her and sink my teeth into the waxy skin. Juice explodes in my mouth and I sigh contently. "How'd you get these?"

"The butcher, of all people. Traded some bread for it, he's practically giving them away today!" she tells me. I teach the butcher's daughter ballet on a Tuesday evening and I've come to know him as a kind, burley man. We sit and finish our apples in silence, before Dee has to leave me to do some work.

* * *

**Hello lovely people! Some of you may recognize Ivy from some SYOCs and it is with great pleasure that I introduce Swan Song - her story through her eyes.**

**While we're at the start of this project, I just want to thank everyone who has helped me so far on this site, you are wonderful!  
**

**Please read and review!**

**Much love.**


	2. Chapter 2

I trudge back home at 11:30am, dripping wet from the thunderstorm raging outside. The second I get to my room, Jeremy pounces on me with a towel and sets me down on my bed. When Shell enters the room, he has me laughing like nothing happened between Pallon and myself. He is recalling a moment in the factory when the machines overloaded and dumped hundreds of peacekeeper uniforms all across the floor and I am laughing so hard that it gives a reasonable explanation for the tear marks on my cheeks. Shell's face lights up when she sees me relatively unharmed. She joins us on the bed, sitting cross-legged between us and listens intently to Jeremy's story. I feel calm, earlier emotions unimportant. All that matters is that at the time being, I am safe and sound with the two people I love in the world. We stay there for an hour, chatting and enjoying ourselves, as we forget the outside world and the events we must partake in. All too soon, I must return us to the real world.

"Jeremy, we have to get ready." I say flatly, pulling a box out from under my bed. I open and take out the black, cotton dress I made for this year's reaping. Jeremy's face falls and he sighs. He kisses the top of Shell's head then sweeps from the room. Shell looks at me from under her thick eyelashes.

"Ivy, I'm scared." She says quietly. I drop to my knees in front of her, a forced smile upon my face. I cup her face in my hands and stroke her cappuccino-coloured skin softly.

"Darling girl, don't be scared. This is Jeremy's last reaping and I only have one more year to go!" I tell her, hiding my anxiety. It will not do for Shell to know just how scared I am. She visibly relaxes. "Now be a good girl and hurry along to your room, I need to get ready." I tell her and watch her toddle from the room.

It is with a heavy heart that I methodically strip from my clothes, a simple vest and trouser combo, and wash the oil and dirt from my body, the water in the sink is a disgusting dark grey when I'm finished. I step into the light cotton of my dress, pull a red ribbon from a drawer and tie it in a neat bow around my waist. Unwillingly, I step in front of a full length mirror and look at myself. My body is thin but athletic, willowy but toned. My skin is very pale but I have no freckles, like most pale skinned girls. I am short, reaching only 5"3. Out of habit from my ballet, I stand with perfectly straight posture, with my bottom tucked in and my head high. My face is round and slight, with a small straight nose and high cheekbones. My eyes are large and round, framed with dark lashes, but it is their dark grey colour that highlights their difference. They are what are known as Seam eyes. The Seam is a place in District Twelve, where the poorest coal-miners live. It is also where my mother was from. My mother, Hacienda Guild, fell in love with a peacekeeper named Flux Allende, and I was the product. A tiny mess of disaster. I killed my mother during childbirth; I killed my father by fuelling his hatred for the Capitol. Isn't it funny that a Peacekeeper hated the Capitol so? Every day he had to look at me, the tiny vision of his true love, the reason he had to rebel. You see, I'm unusual. But I'm not unusual in a good way, no. I'm a mutant. The Capitol did something to Flux Allende when he became a peacekeeper, something that would turn his offspring into monsters. I have a genetic mutation, but as far as peacekeeper children go – I'm so very, very lucky. My hair is a peculiar colour, the colour of burgundy wine. My eyes are just ever so slightly too large, my ears are just a bit too pointed. My father used to tell me I was beautiful, but I could always see the strange look in his eyes when he looked at me.

"You hideous mutt." I whisper to myself as I pull my hair out of its tie. I comb through it with my fingers and leave it flowing in gentle waves down my back. My cheekbone is a bit swollen, offsetting the symmetry of my face, but I wear it proudly. I would much rather bare the injury on my skin than inside my heart, had Pallon achieved his goal. I play with the steel ring in the cartilage of my right ear and look myself up and down, unimpressed. A deep pit is beginning to form in my stomach, fuelled by nerves and anger. I slip on a pair of simple black plimsolls, one of only three pairs of shoes I own, and nod at myself in the mirror.

"That'll do." I mutter, swivelling on my heel and heading out the door.

As is tradition on Reaping Day, I head back up to the roof. Jeremy is already waiting for me when I climb up. He is dressed in black straight leg trousers and a beige shirt that is at least two sizes too big for him. Yet somehow, he looks smart and clean, no small feat in the dust covered world of District Eight. Even his hand-me-down outfit looks presentable on his tall, gangly form. His jet black hair is slightly ruffled by the wind and his hazel eyes are drawn out by the colour of his shirt. His straight jaw is set tight and he is looking out towards the square with fear. I join him, leaning on the rail and nudge his shoulder.

"Ready?" I ask, a hypothetical question more than anything. He merely shrugs his shoulders in reply. "I don't want to do this." I whisper. Jeremy's arm slides around my shoulders, like when we first met.

"I know. You're nearly in the clear, though. Just one more year." He tells me, softly. All of a sudden, I'm jealous of him. Today is Jeremy's last Reaping and, shamefully, I want to swap places with him. I relish in his warmth. "Once this is over, I'm going to save up for us. I'll buy us a house, just you wait and see! We'll take Shell and we'll live together away from this awful home and no one will ever raise their hand to you again." He tells me, with passion in his voice. I can't help but envy his hopefulness. Just for a second, I imagine the way our lives could be. Maybe we could be happy. I think about a future with this boy – the boy who has seen me through countless tears, hundreds of injuries, fears and shame. I'm overwhelmed with warmth for Jeremy, the boy who saved me so many times. What a mess I would be without him.

"Do you think we could really do it?" I ask. Jeremy tightens his arm around me, holding me snuggly to him.

"Yes. If anybody can, we can. Maybe we can even get you running proper ballet lessons, get you your own studio. With mirrors on the wall, like that picture you showed me once." He says. "Our house will be right over…there." He says, pointing out towards the edge of the District, next to the Mayor's manor house, where there is a single oak tree. We used to climb the tree in the summer as kids, it seems fitting to want to live where we have so many wonderful memories. I can feel the anticipation that these memories hold, the adventures we had with the kids of the district.

"We should go." He says suddenly, wiping the passion from his face. With empty, robotic movements, we make our way back and head towards the Reaping in silence.

* * *

Jeremy and I must part ways once we reach the square. I give his hand a quick squeeze as a peacekeeper pushes me into the female line. All around me are the sounds of families saying goodbye to their children. Some of the twelve year olds are sobbing, but they are as safe as they can get. I allow the woman at the front of the line to prick my finger and smudge my blood on the assigned box. I suck the blood from my finger as I weave my way through the crowd of terrified looking children. An air of despair lingers in the smog above our heads and the presence of Capitol camera crews on the roofs of our ugly, grey buildings rip through any remaining hope the District 8 people have. Today is the day that two of our children shall be taken from their family's arms and thrown into a deadly arena. No, today the odds are not in our favour. Welcome to Reaping day.

When I come to a halt, I'm in a roped off area full of other seventeen year olds. I smooth my hair down nervously as my eyes flit around, looking for Jeremy in the pressing crowd. When I find him, he is eyeing the make-shift stage in front of the Justice Building with a dark expression. When he finally turns towards me, I force the ghost of a smile upon my lips as I try to lift his spirit but then I'm faced with the knowledge that his name is in the big glass reaping ball thirty-five times and I'm forced to turn my face away as darkness washes over it. There is motion on the stage so I face the front, taking a deep breath to calm my shaking hands. The four folding chairs on the stage have been filled with the strangest assortment of people I have ever seen. The mayor of District Eight sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap, dressed in a faded pinstriped suit, which had obviously been re-patched many times. There is a thin layer of perspiration breaking through the hastily applied powder on his forehead. I know that he is worrying as he stares out towards the crowd. Next to the mayor is the Capitol representative, Virgious Hathsman, a man with pasty white skin and huge vomit green curls, piled up on the top of his head. His lips are painted with a matching green lipstick and his long finger nails scrap the side of face as he excitedly twirls a green lock of his ugly hair. He is dressed in a lavish silver suit, sparkling with diamante. In the dreary backdrop of the Justice Building, he is a well-groomed mess of colour. Beside him sit the only two victors District Eight has had in seventy-one years of Hunger Games. It strikes me how unprepared the children are from our district, the only district without a trade that could do some damage. Even the ones from District Twelve, who don't go into the mines until they are eighteen, go into the games with a deadly knowledge of a pickaxe or strength. How much damage can a needle do compared the sharp edge of a blade? The first victor is an ancient man by the name of Woof. He has wiry white hair and looks around him with a dreamy look; I doubt he even knows what is happening. Beside him is Cecila, a motherly thirty year old who stares with despair out towards the crowd. The mayor wipes his brow as he stands up and strides with quick steps towards the microphone at the front of the stage.

"People of District Eight, Happy Hunger Games! Welcome to the Seventy-Second Annual Reaping." He says in a gruff voice. He pulls out a sheet of paper from his suit pocket and begins to read the required speech. But I'm not even listening. I'm too busy wallowing in my anxiety to hear it. Finally, Virgious stands up and bounces towards the microphone.

"Happy, Happy Hunger Games!" He announces in a ridiculous Capitol accent. His curls bounce up and down with him as he beams out towards the crowd with pearly white teeth.

"Shall we begin?" he asks, like we have a choice. "Okay then, Ladies first…" He strolls towards the glass bowl on the right hand side of the stage with painstakingly slow steps. I bite my lip as I watch his hand reach in and fish around the hundreds of slips. Finally, he plucks one out and returns to the microphone. He opens the slip, and then begins to grin as he announces the name of the girl destined to die.

"Ladies and Gentleman, the female tribute for the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games is…" He stops for a dramatic pause.

"Ivy Allende."

* * *

**So we all knew that was coming...**

**But who will Ivy's district partner be? **

**Please read and review!**

**Much love.**


	3. Chapter 3

When I was twelve, I fell in the lake that surrounds District Eight and I sunk deep into the water, screaming but all the came out was bubbles. That's how I feel now. The syllables bounce around in my skull as my brain desperately tries to piece them together in a way that does not make my name. I'm silently screaming but all I can make is air. I feel a hand on my shoulder and some kid that I don't know is softly pushing me forward. I force my buckling knees to move and I step down the path that the crowd has created before me, shrinking away as the doomed girl walks before them.

"Ah, there is the lucky girl! Come up here, sweetheart." Encourages Virgious. I've reached the steps and I begin to mount them when I hear my name screamed out behind me. Shell is running towards me on wobbling legs, tears streaming down her face.

"Ivy! No!" She wails, but I just stand there helplessly, shaking my head. A peacekeeper steps out to stop her and I run forward, sweep her into my arms and glare at him. She has tears streaming down from her big, brown eyes and she opens her mouth to speak to me.

"Shh…" I soothe, pressing my index finger against her lips, stilling her sobs. Suddenly, I'm all too aware of the cameras trained on my face, of the microphones broadcasting my every word across the whole nation of Panem. I choose my words carefully.

"I have to go away for a while." I tell her, softly, "Guess where I'm going? The Capitol. "I deliberately add a sense of wonder to my words. I hear a commotion somewhere near me and the tell-tale sound of flesh hitting flesh makes me wince, but then I feel the soothing coolness of Jeremy's hands as he pulls Shell from my arms. We do not exchange any words; one moment of eye contact speaks the volumes we need to communicate with each other. He gives me a slight nod and then I'm walking back up the stairs towards the mess of colour on the stage. I wipe all trace of emotion from my face and I become a mask of indifference.

"Hello darling!" sings Virgious Hathsman as I reach the microphone. He is obviously very excited by the action District Eight has provided this year. "Now, who is that delightful little girl?" he asks me.

"Her name is Shell." I say, simply. He motions for me to elaborate but I offer no more, instead I just gaze off towards the distant.

"Wonderful! Now, do we have any volunteers to take Ivy's place?" He asks, seemly unfazed. It comes as no surprise to me when no-one speaks up. Few people would even volunteer for their own sibling, family ties are meaningless on Reaping day, and I have no siblings and few friends. In that painstakingly long moment of silence, I see the pity in the people's eyes as they watch me stand there, awkward and alone. I find Jeremy in the crowd, his arms full of a squirming Shell, and his eyes are already trained on my face, burning with some deep emotion that strikes fear in the deepest pit of my stomach. I can feel the anger raging inside of him, communicated by the gaze he has transfixed me in. The bitter knowledge of my fate leaves a metallic taste on my tongue and I feel my eyes pricking with the beginnings of tears. No, I mustn't cry. I will not allow myself to be targeted for my emotion. I push my head higher, to give the illusion of confidence I desire.

"Well then, shall we choose our lucky, lucky boy?" asks Virgious, with contemptible joy. My mouth runs dry as I silently beg for anyone but Jeremy. Please, do not be Jeremy. Without him, Shell shall surely starve. Without him is a world I cannot face. Virgious teeters towards the second glass reaping ball and reaches his hand in cheerfully. I can feel the stillness from the crowd, for not one soul is breathing. The only sound is the clattering of Virgious' silly heels as he strides back to the microphone.

"Now, the male tribute representing District Eight in the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games is…" His accent pulls off the words in funny places as he slowly and deliberately builds the tension in the square. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, preparing myself mentally.

"Damien Reynolds."

* * *

"No!" I hear a barely audible whisper escape the lips of the Mayor behind me. All of the teenagers surrounding the Mayor's only son scatter, leaving him standing alone, shook registering on his face. The crowd of family members begin to grumble, this child is just fifteen years old. I watch as Damien tears himself out his stupor and he stumbles forward on visibly shaking legs. My brow creases and I bite my lip. He is fifteen. He is fifteen. How can I kill a fifteen year old?!

"Come here, come here!" calls Virgious, oblivious to my internal conflict. Damien nervously smooths his chestnut brown hair away from his face as he mounts the steps. I turn my head, looking to the Mayor. His expression is unreadable but he looks at me with a hint of pleading in his eyes. Damien reaches the microphone and Virgious looks like he might wet himself in excitement.

"My, my, my…" He begins, liking his horrid lips. "If I'm not mistaken, you are Mayor Reynolds' son – are you not?" Damien's eyes are brimming with tears but he keeps his face emotionless.

"Yes." He chokes. Being the Mayor's son he has a much plumper figure than anyone else in the district and I know that he hasn't worked a day in his life. His eyes are small and dark, inviting but harrowing and he stands at about 5"10. Shock and fear register in his face and he hunches his shoulder, attempting to hide the terror he feels. No one volunteers for Damien.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the District Eight tributes!" announces Virgious, bouncing with excitement. The crowd stands in silence; neither condoning nor encouraging anything, for there is nothing they can do. "Tributes - please shake hands." I turn to Damien, who offers his quivering hand. Instead, I surprise us both and pull him quickly into my arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Damien." I whisper into his ear. When I let him go, he stares into my eyes with a solemn knowledge. Then a peacekeeper applies a tight grip on my arm and I am lead away from the crowd into the dark corridors of the Justice Building.

* * *

Jeremy is the first person through the solid oak doors that imprison me. Wordlessly, he encloses me in a cool embrace. I bury my face into his chest and breathe in his scent. We stay there for a few minutes, not moving, barely breathing.

"Ivy. I'm sorry. So, so sorry." He whispers. I step away from him, taking in the hard pressed creases on his forehead.

"Jeremy, don't." I say, firmly. His expression is one of rage.

"They're taking you away! The Capitol is taking you away and there is nothing I can do about it! I'm so weak… helpless. I'm sorry." He fumes, pacing the room. He pounds his fist against the windowpane. Desperation lingers in the footprints he leaves in the plush white carpet, clinging to the dirt from his boots.

"It's not your fault!" I insist. "It will never be your fault. It's all going to be okay, it has to be." Oh how I wish that was true. "Just promise me one thing?" He strides to me, gripping my wrists.

"Anything."

"Shell. Raise her like we never were, in my memory." My voice catches and I force a steading breath into my uncooperative lungs. Jeremy shakes his head slowly, and his voice is uneven when he speaks.

"You. Are. Coming. Home." He assures me. "You have too."

The oak doors begin to open and a blur of white uniform breezes into the room. Jeremy clenches his muscles.

"Listen to me. You're light, you're flexible. Run fast. When you reach the Capitol, learn as much as you can, try everything. But hide your strengths from the other tributes; you must keep it a secret. Ivy. Dance. You'll make it home, okay?" His tone is audacious and the words flow quickly from his mouth. The peacekeepers grab hold of him and try to pull him out of the room, but he fights them, throwing his strength into them. "Try to make allies, get people to like you and remember that…" He is yanked from the room and the doors swing shut with a cruel thud. Once again, I'm alone. I pace around the room, trailing my hand from luxury to luxury. The walls are panelled in dark wood, carved with pretty lace patterns. All of the soft furnishings are made from velvet, thick purple velvet that sucks up sound as easily as dust. A thick layer of this dust lies on everything in this room, which obviously is very rarely used. I've never seen such expensive items but now my mind is busy with other things. The window has fogged up with condensation so I press my burning forehead onto the soothing glass, closing my eyes to shut out the world.

"Remember what?" I whisper. What do you want me to remember? Oh Jeremy, please be okay without me. I have a sick, emptiness in my stomach. It feels like something is missing inside. Jeremy has been my rock for so long, and now that he is gone I have been engulfed by the raging storm. I perch awkwardly on the soft sofa, gazing unfocussed at a speck of dirt left from Jeremy's boots.

Five minutes later, the door opens again and I turn expectantly towards it. There stands Shell, her hands balled up in tiny fists and perfect face screwed in exasperation. Immediately, she begins to sob.

"You s-said it would b-be okay! You told a lie!" She accuses. I hurry to her side, sitting in front of her.

"It will! It will be okay! Calm down Shell, it's going to be fine!" I soothe, smoothing her frizzy hair back with the palm of my hand. She pushes my hand away with an unimpressed expression.

"You're going t-to the Capitol! The ones t-that g-g-go to the Capitol don't c-come home!"

"I know, I know. But I'm going to be different, I'm going to come home, you'll see! In a few weeks, you'll see me walking through the doors to your room with a big smile on my face and I'll scoop you up into a HUGE hug and spin you around and around." Her face relaxes.

"Promise?" she asks me, her voice hopeful.

"I promise."

"I'll miss you." She whimpers. I blink away tears and hug her tightly to my chest.

"I'll miss you so much, darling girl." I whisper, pressing my face into her hair and inhaling her sweet scent. After a few seconds, she pulls back and fidgets with her coral necklace.

"Sometimes the kids take something with them, take this." Shell pulls the rope necklace over her head and presses it urgently into my hand. Now I'm dangerously close to breaking down and sobbing. I put on the necklace and force a smile onto my face.

"Thank you."

"Now you can never forget me!" The door opens behind us and a single peacekeeper enters. She looks at us sadly.

"I could never forget you." I assure her, "Now, I need you to be a good girl while I'm gone. Listen to Jeremy, do what he tells you. Don't believe what you see on the television and always remember that I love you. Can you do that for me?" Shell nods fiercely and I hug her one last time before she is lead away. I sit on the floor, emptiness gnawing at my insides. For a long time, there is nothing but silence. I listen to the steady beat of my heart and pretend to be somewhere else, far away.

The oak doors open and Dee sweeps into the room and encloses me in her arms.

"You are brave, you are strong, and you are beautiful. You are going to come home. Who else will I share my apples with?" she whispers, causing a little smile to grace my lips. "You're going to get sponsors; people have always liked you, and you're so charming. Use that to your advantage. Don't fret, I'll watch Shell for you and I'll make sure Jeremy is okay. Keep your head high, Ivy. You can do this." She kisses my cheek and hurtles from the room as quickly as she entered.

I barely have time to think before I hear a knock on the door. Before I can answer, the door opens and in steps a thin, balding man. I gasp, and instinctively throw myself up and into a protective position.

"Pallon." I snarl. He flinches at my hostility.

"You have the soul of a fighter. So fight." He spits, before turning and fleeing my glare. I'm filled with confusion. Did Pallon just endorse me to win? I think over his words, thrown out like sharp knives, but the meaning was almost kind. I have the soul of a fighter? Is this true? It seems that he believes I might be able to win this.

The door opens again and I ready myself for being dragged away by peacekeepers. Un-expectantly, a group of girls enter the room. They are all merchant daughters – girls that I sell ballet lessons too in exchange for food and items to trade on the black market. I gape at them, speechless. They smile uneasily at me until one of them works up the confidence to break the silence.

"We wanted to say thank you." She said, motioning to the others, "For everything you've done and everything you taught us. You're a beautiful dancer and a lovely friend. We wanted you to have this – something for you to take with you. I'm sure that you already have a token so we got you something really special to keep with you for a while." She produces a red poppy from behind her back and holds it out to me. I take it from her and stare in wonder.

"Where did you get this?" My voice is barely louder than a whisper and I can't believe that I'm holding a real flower in my hands. District Eight is an urban district; we don't even have grass, let alone flowers. They just smile at me. With barely a word more, they each throw their arms around me and scurry from the room. I'm left clutching my poppy and staring at the door with a bemused expression. I have never thought of those girls as friends and yet, they came to say goodbye. I finally allow the tears to spill from my eyes and a few choked sobs escape my lips. I'm shaking like a leaf and I'm cursing myself for being so emotional but after the events of my horrendous day, it's impossible not to be. When my eyes run dry, I rub my face on the hem of my dress and attempt to sort myself out. There will be camera crews shoving themselves in my face and the last thing I need is to be pinpointed as a weakling. That method worked for a girl years ago, pretending to be useless but then unleashing on those left towards the end of the Games. Somehow, I don't think that can be my strategy. I need to find a good way to present myself. I allow myself a tiny glimmer of hope; maybe I might actually make it home. I conjure up an image of flinging myself into Jeremy's strong arms, finally safe again. Determination begins to fill the emptiness inside me. I have to make it home, and I might actually have a chance.

All too soon, a handful of peacekeepers escort me from the room. One keeps a constant grip on my arm, as if I might make a break for it any second. Believe me, it sure crosses my mind but I rule it out as an unrealistic option. The train station is packed with reporters and cameras that are panned on my face. Thankfully, I was able to remove all traces of emotion from my body and I provide a medusa stare as I stride towards the Tribute Train. Damien, however, is not quite as lucky and I can easily see the redness around his eyes. I'm surprised by the sheer number of District Eight citizens that have turned up as well; they wave us off with sullen expressions that create a surprisingly benign feeling in my heart. It seems that I am not quite as an unwanted child as I've always believed. It's like there has been a shift since my name was read out, I am now someone of importance.

* * *

**Goodbyes are never fun.**

**Please read, review and share with your friends!**

**Much Love.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Welcome to another chapter of Swan Song! **

**I'm really eager to get feedback from you all, as it will help me get better and help the progress of this story!**

* * *

Once I'm on the train, I'm stunned by the beauty and luxury of the carriages. Damien and I are sitting in what I assume is the dining room. We perch on overly stuffed armchairs and stare about us in wonder. The door slides open and in steps Virgious, grasping a clipboard and smiling at us with a cheesy grin. Behind him stand Cecila and Woof, with pained expressions and an air of unease. Virgious walks briskly up to me and tucks a lock of hair behind my ears.

"Yes, I believe we can work with this one." He says, like I'm nothing but an animal. I have to restrain myself from hissing at him. I narrow my eyes into slits and purse my lips. Virgious, apparently oblivious to my reaction, turns to Damien and looks him up and down.

"Not overly attractive, but I guess we have had worse."

"Excuse me?" says Damien, irritation obvious on his face. Before either of us can begin shouting, Cecila steps in with a practised sweep of her arms.

"Virgious, darling, would you be so kind as to fetch the schedules?" she purrs. He smiles sweetly and breezes from the room. I watch Cecila as she waits for him to leave before turning to us.

"Virgious has a very… different personality to those of us from the Districts." She tells us, in place of an explanation. Damien catches my eye, sporting a confused smile, and I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement. I wish they wouldn't make me sit in the same room as him; I'd rather not even look at him. He's just going to be an extra name on the list of deaths I cause. My mother, my father, even a few of the rebels my father led.

"Different is a bit of an understatement, don't you think?" Chuckles Woof, who is not quite focussing on us and instead gazed out of the window to the moving scenery. Cecila ignores him and begins to pace the room.

"Ivy, my name is Cecila and I will be your mentor. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask. Damien, meet Woof, who will be mentoring you." Damien does not look pleased with this turn of events. Cecila sits down at the wooden dining set and picks up a spoon, twirling it in her fingers. "First, let's establish your strengths. What are you good at?" she asks me. Virgious has rubbed me up the wrong way and I'm struggling to rein in my temper. My brain is not even registering the question she asked me. I sit in dumb silence, brow creased.

"She dances. Very well." blurts out Damien. I swivel in my seat to look at him. How does he know I dance? He's never met me, never even spoken to me. Like he's read my mind, Damien just shrugs and says

"Word gets around." Cecila leans towards me, balancing her elbow on the table.

"What sort of dance do you do?" she asks.

"Ballet."

"How did you learn ballet?" Uncertainty, I diverge some of the details to my life.

"Someone who used to dance for the Capitol." I say, because it is the truth. I did learn from someone how used to dance in the Capitol, an old kind lady named Denisa who was teaching the one of the factory owner's daughters. I was seven, unskilled and useless, and I heard music coming from an old building as I was walking home from school. I climbed to the roof and stared in the skylight, where I saw this teenage girl move her body with a grace and beauty that I wanted to grasp a hold of, and store deep inside of me. From that day, and many days after – I would watch her, and then copy her movements until I perfected the routine. I would not dare ask the old lady to teach me, because social classes are dangerous territory and I was an orphan, taught to avoid those above me and to keep in the shadows so they do not have the displeasure of seeing my face. Those are the rules we learn in the community home. One day however, the woman caught me climbing back down the brick walls of the building. I tried to run away, but she grasped my arm and took me inside. She led me to the centre of the room, left me there and sat at the piano.

"You want to dance? Then dance." She had said, as she began to play a slow, mourn-full tune on the piano. And so I started to dance the same routine the graceful girl had. For years afterwards, Denisa taught me to dance. She passed away a year ago but I still go and dance in that hall sometimes, in her memory. Those memories feel too precious to me, and I do not want to share the details with this woman. Already though, I am warming up to the kind features Cecila sports. My original hostile feelings are ebbing away slowly and I decide to let Cecila help me.

"So that must mean that you're flexible, strong and fast. How are your climbing skills?"

"Okay, I guess. I mean, I can climb up the community home but I've really not had much practise."

"Do you know anything about survival?" She walks around me, looking my small body up and down. I shake my head. There has never been any need to learn about survival skills.

"Of course not. Nobody ever does." She murmurs. Woof is engaged in a similar interaction with Damien, who looks more and more uncomfortable with each question and seems to be shaking his head a lot. Cecila stays quiet for a while and I stare out of the window. Finally, she catches my eye.

"I'm so sorry you were reaped." She says. She is the first person that I can be sure knows how I feel. I find myself wondering what horrors she faced in her games and how they will compare to the nightmare I am to face.

"What's done is done." I say, because I have actually accepted that there is nothing to be done. I will live or I will die, it's all on me. I've reigned in my temper enough that when Virgious re-enters the room, I don't even blink in his direction. He bounces into a seat at the table, arms full of paper and spreads them out on the table. He clears his throat loudly until we all stop talking and stare at him.

"We have a very, very busy schedule for the next few days! We'll be reaching the Capitol in the morning and then it'll be full steam ahead to make you pretty enough for the cameras!" He continues on for a while but I tune out of his annoying drawl, and instead wonder about what is happening at home. Most people would be involved in a big party, not anything fancy but they will be celebrating their luck. I cannot bear to think about Jeremy and Shell, so I think about Damien's family. Damien is an only child; he lives with his mother, father and aunt in a big manor house near the centre of town. He does not work, he lives a life of luxury compared to the likes of myself. I've always been envious of his life, but watching him now I see just how weak that life has made him. I was raised in brutality and it has rubbed off on me, while Damien was raised in a kind household. I feel sorry for him because, for the first time ever, being an orphan is the advantage.

Dinner is served at the wooden dining set. The table is piled high with more food than I've ever set eyes on. There are huge bowls of stews and soups, pastas and meats. I fill my plate, taking a bit of just about everything and eat as much as my stomach can take. Hundreds of new tastes flood my mouth as I eat and I can see the amazement I feel reflected on Damien's face. Virgious seems mildly impressed at my table manners but otherwise looks at Damien and I with an air of disgust. I really do not like him and his vomit curls. My favourite thing by far is chicken stuffed with little miniature oranges and roasted potatoes. I eat so much that I feel like I'm going to burst. There is little conversation at dinner, just a few questions that Damien and I answer with a simple yes or no.

"Shall we watch the rest of the Reaping?" suggests Woof as we finish our deserts. We move to the settee and switch on the television. The Reaping went smoothly in most districts, with volunteers for Districts One, Two and Four; the Careers. The girl from Two has a menacing look in her eyes and I immediately decide to stay as far away from her as possible. The male tribute from District Four is a brute, with huge muscles, sleek blonde hair and dark, dangerous eyes. I shudder when I see him. Most of the tributes are decidable unremarkable, though there were two twelve years olds – one from Ten and one from Five – that stick out horribly in my mind. I begin to feel a bit intimidated by the others, because the whole thing is getting a lot more real very quickly. When we watch our Reaping, I am glad to see that my face remains the clean slate I wanted. The commentators make some notes about my frame and say that I might be one to watch. When Shell interferes, they speculate on her relationship to me and how this could affect my games. I watch myself stand with perfect posture, thoroughly composed, and I find it disturbing how much emotion I was hiding below it all. The boy tribute from Twelve was a tall, dark haired attractive boy that reminded me of my father in his build. His eyes are the same as mine, Seam eyes.

As the evening draws in, Cecila, Virgious and Woof all excuse themselves and head to bed. I leave Damien half asleep on the settee and go to my room. There is a huge bed taking up most of the room, some drawers and a vanity mirror as well as elaborate plush decoration. I remove the many lace covered pillows from the bed with disgust and throw them around the room, creating a pretty patchwork on the white carpet. I decide to have a wash and marvel at the wonders of a shower. It's like a hot rainstorm, but even better. I wash my hair and body with a purple lavender soap that smells exactly like the softening lotion we use on dresses before shipping them to the Capitol, and rinse off all of the suds. When I step out, I am instantly dried by an electric current that tingles to the bottom of my fingertips and toes, making me wriggle. I tie a fluffy towel around myself and search through the drawers for some pyjamas. It takes a while but I finally find some cotton bottoms beneath piles of silk and satin nightgowns and pull them on with a blue top. I brush my hair out and tie it up into a ponytail, tucking the stray burgundy locks behind my pointed ears. I curl up on the bed and stare out of the window, where the passing trees cast long shadows across the dark room. My mind plays the scenes of the days again and again. From the skin-crawling encounter with Pallon this morning, to the hopelessness of saying goodbye, I see it all again. My brain will not shut up and I cannot fall asleep. I lie on the bed for two hours while sleep eludes me. Finally, I give up and tiptoe back out to the dining room.

The television is still running, though the volume has been turned right down and Damien is snoring on the couch. I sink into one of the arm chairs and watch as my face repeatedly flashes up on the screen. The betting will already be starting in the Capitol, the sickening tradition of betting on who will survive. I idly wonder what my odds are but I assume that they will not be high, not compared to the careers with their strength and training. My eyes run around the room, looking for some way to contain my restlessness. I find a bottle of brown liquid sitting in a glass tumbler across the room so I remove the lid of the top and take a sniff. The strong scent stings my nostrils and smells strongly like the rubbing alcohol found in the back of the market place. I curiously take a swig of the brown liquid. It burns my throat as it goes down and leaves a strong, not quite unpleasant taste in my mouth. Then I feel a warmth in my stomach that fills up the emptiness I've been feeling and I lick my lips. I take another sip. Then another. And another. With each gulp of glorious brown liquor, my unhappiness disappears and I'm left with a giddiness I've never felt before. I've nearly emptied the bottle when Damien stops snoring and sits up. He runs his hand through his hair and then spots me sitting on the floor, with the bottle tightly clasped in my hand and giggling like a child. Everything feels a bit blurry and when I try to tell him that he should try this drink, it all comes out as a big slur. He sighs and walks over to me.

"Ivy, what are you doing?" he asks me, sleepiness husking his voice.

"Driiinkin'…" I say, hiccupping, "You shouuuulld try it tooo." The world is swaying a bit and it's no longer fun, it's starting to be a bit scary. I have a sudden urge to tell Damien everything I'm feeling. "We're gonna die, 'amien. Eight nev'r lasts long." He bends to my level, shaking his head. "I'm scar'd."

"I know. You're also very drunk." He says. I think that he is being is very rude.

"'Hats perpost'rous, I'd not geet drun'" I declare, my anger being lost in the annoying slur of my words. My tongue does not seem able to work properly, now I'm really starting to get a bit angry. I try to stand up and immediately fall back down.

"I'm havi'n some issues here…" I mention, intending to ask for a bit of help. Damien sighs heavily and pulls my arm around his neck. It's really quite hard to stand up because the world appears to be slanting dangerously at a sharp angle but I make it up eventually. I stumble back towards my room, feeling very sorry for myself. Damien follows, catching me when I stumble and sighing a lot. His sighing is really annoying me.

"You need t' stop sighin' or I'm gonna' figh' you" I threaten, but it seems to come out as more pitiful then threatening. Damien actually chuckles and holds onto my arm as he leads me into the room. I fall onto the bed and crawl into the covers. Darkness is claiming me and I happily embrace it.

"Than' you, I lov' you, Jeremy" I murmur as I slip into unconsciousness.

* * *

When I awaken, the first thing I register is that my head hurts. It really hurts badly. I groan, peeling the sheet away from my body. The light coming in from the window is hurting my eyes and everything feels a bit hazy. I jump to my feet and immediately tumble back onto the bed. So standing up isn't a good idea. I rub my eyes roughly and recollect my thoughts. My name is Ivy Allende. I'm going to die soon. If I don't die, I will be a murderer. Isn't that just dandy? My head is in my hands and I feel like death. Bile rises in my throat and I have to make a dash for the bathroom. I only just make it to the toilet before I empty the contents of my stomach. The stench of my half decomposed dinner makes me retch again and I'm stuck in a horrible cycle of dry-retching. My skin is pricking with cold sweat so I lie down and press my forehead against the cold tile of the floor. Ugh. Never drinking again sounds like a good idea. I'm just about to start retching again when there is a series of loud, slow knocks on my door.

"Go away." I mutter, ducking over the sink to rise out my mouth. The knocking persists. With a heavy sigh, I go to open the door. Virgious stands there in a ridiculous pinstriped suit, with a bowler hat balancing precariously on the top of his head. His expression is wrought with annoyance.

"Up. Get up. You're late already, breakfast is already served." The way he is looking at me instantly makes me feel very self-conscious of the state I am in.

"Yeah, sure, I'll be right there." I tell him, closing the door in his face. I don't know quite what it is, but something about him makes me angry. I can hear him mutter something about "insolence" under his breath but then he leaves me alone. Thank heaven for that. I return to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face before searching through the ridiculous drawer full of clothes for something that doesn't make me look like a dressed up turkey. I settle on a green button up shirt and a pair of fitted black trousers. I twist my hair up into a bun and pin it into place with some grips I've found in a box. I'm disgusted when I look in the mirror because the stress has brought on a row of ugly, red spots across my forehead. The swelling in my cheekbone has gone down but now it's left with a dark blue bruise. I'm never going to get sponsored looking like this.

"I hope my stylist is a miracle worker." I say to myself, frowning. I head to the dining cart before Virgious can come back and yell at me, though the image of his curls bouncing on his head as he shouts does bring a smile to my lips. Damien and Cecila are at the table when I enter, squinting at the bright light. My head is pounding. They stop their conversation suddenly when I walk in, so I know that it was about me.

"Good morning." Cecila says, not unkindly. I resist the urge to simply groan at her and force myself to wish her the same. I slouch into my seat and start to load up my plate with eggs and bacon. I lean forward to smell the delicious bacon and immediately bile rises in my throat again. Instead of the nice smell I expected, I'm assaulted with a sickening stench. Damien chuckles under his breath, amusement playing over his face.

"Maybe you should just stick to the coffee?" he offers, holding out a cup of dark black liquid to me. I wrinkle my nose at the bitter smell but tentatively take a sip. It's very bitter but had a bit of a fruity after taste. I force myself to drink more, warming up my insides and leaving a very nice buzz in my veins. Already, my headache is subsiding slightly. Virgious stalks in, trailing a half-asleep Woof, and lands in his seat with an obvious "Oomph". Cecila raises her eyebrows but doesn't say anything.

"Today is the Chariot ride. We shall be reaching the Capitol in two hours; I hope that you will be ready. You will meet your stylists and prep teams; under no circumstances will you argue with them, they know what is best. I suggest that you re-watch the Reaping's to get a better understanding of your opponents; it is what they will be doing this morning." He says. I'm currently coaxing some bread into my stomach, because I have to eat as much as I can before the Games. I nod along as he says all of this but I already know that instead of watching the Reaping, I'm going to go dance in my room, or somewhere else quiet. This fancy train might even have some music somewhere I can use, rather than my usual technique of humming a tune. Still, I nod along pleasantly because Virgious looks a bit like he might snap if anyone else annoys him. My apparent submission seems to please him though and he sits with a smug smile on his pasty white face. Seriously, he must paint his face that colour because it doesn't even look possible. I've finally managed to eat a full plate of food and pick at some fruit as I listen to Virgious go on and on. Eventually, Woof butts in.

"Damien, Ivy; go wash up and then we can have a quick chat." He says in a quiet voice. I immediately jump up from my seat and rush to the door. Damien isn't far behind; I can tell that he is just as desperate to get away from Virgious as I am. We're padding down to the soft carpeted hall when he reaches out and grabs my arms. I flinch at his touch and pull away instantly.

"What?" I snap.

"We need to talk…about last night." He says. I'm filled with a desperate need to get away from him. There is something about his eyes, the way they look so sad, that draws me to him and that is not something I can afford. I decide to set things straight, as I see it.

"No, we do not need to talk. You and me? We're not going to be friends. There is no way that can happen. Either I live, or you live, there is no both so you can stop even looking at me because I cannot take it." I hadn't even realised that I was shouting, but the last syllables of my harsh words echo off the walls. Damien is speechless, I turn and stalk away. In the refuge of my room, I throw a couple of the lace cushions at the wall. I'm angry, I'm desperate and I hate everyone. I hate the Capitol, I hate Virgious, I hate Cecila, I hate Woof, I hate Damien and most of all, I hate myself. I can't even be civilised to that boy, when he's in the same boat as me. He must be feeling the same way, he has a life at home too. He probably has friends and a girl and his doting family to shower him with kindness.

"For goodness sake, Ivy. Why are you so useless?" I whimper, running my hands over my head and sliding down the wall to floor. This will not do. Damien is dead already; he has no chance of surviving the Games, not if I'm to win. So what harm will it do to be nice to him? I curse myself for my behaviour and I decide to head to Damien's room and apologise.

Damien doesn't answer when I knock on the door. I persist in my knocking but, when there is no answer, I take the liberty of letting myself in. The room is dark, with the curtains drawn and the lights off. Damien is leaning against the far wall, knees to his chest. To my surprise, he is crying.

"Damien…I…" I begin. He is startled by my presence, obviously not hearing my entry, and wipes away his tears quickly. I walk across the room and sit next to him. I open my mouth to speak, a fountain of sorrows ready to pour, but Damien interrupts me.

"What's your favourite animal?" I feel my eyebrows rise; that was not what I expected.

"Excuse me?"

"What is your favourite animal? I want to know." He insists. He must be insane.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because if I'm going into that arena, I want to at least know one person. Please answer me." His tone is sincere and I ponder the question for a second, but I know the answer straight away.

"Swan." I feel his body relax a bit beside me.

"Why a swan?" he asks. I look at the floor, twirling a loose curl of hair around my pinkie.

"They're so graceful, beautiful... Did you know that there is a legend that they sing just before they die."

"Swan song. Yeah, my mother once told me about it." He says, obviously interested in my answer.

"It's such an amazing way to leave the world, with a song." I say, "I wish I could get to do something like that but…" I trail off and turn towards the window, lifting the edge of the curtain. The Capitol is rolling into view, in all its majestic, shiny glory. I throw the curtains open, flooding the room with light, and stare at it. I'm standing up and I hear the rustling as Damien joins me.

"I know that you don't want to be allies but… let's just know each other, at least before we get to the arena. I don't want to do this alone." He speaks in a low, quiet whisper, like he's so scared that I'll refuse that he can't even say it properly; he has to resort to a whisper. I take his hand in mine as a reply. Though we are both working so hard to kill each other, I agree with him. I don't want to be alone either. I can't take my eyes of the beauty that is the Capitol, with its huge skyscrapers and buildings sporting a strange rainbow hue as we roll towards it. This is how it begins.

"May the odds be ever in your favour." I whisper.

* * *

**We've reached the Capitol! **

**Unfortunatly, we've now reached the point that I havent written yet, so updates may be an awful lot slower. Please be patient with me though, I will do my best to write quickly but I have exams soon!**

**Please read, review and share with your friends!**

**Much love. x**


End file.
